


you alone that i care to keep

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Series: sonnetverse [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Rough And Tender Sex, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is a very good boyfriend, Soldier!John, True Love, Younger John, Younger Sherlock, but it works for them, can be read as a standalone piece, honestly they're frighteningly codependent, the amount of love in this is sickening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 21:38:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16071860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: Each time John leaves, Sherlock feels the familiar gaping holes in his body. The wretched emptiness returns, the wound in his chest flares open. He falls apart so easily when he turns to his side and John isn't there.And when he comes back, oh. John finds all of this aching, raw holes and stitches him back together. John makes him whole again with his touch, finds all the jagged pieces and fits them back into place, like breathing life into a corpse on an operating table; and Sherlock couldn't find a name for what they were even if you put a gun to his head.





	you alone that i care to keep

John's calloused fingers curl over Sherlock's hands. Sherlock knows those hands so well; knows every groove and every line, the way they feel against his face, twined in his hair, inside of him. Sherlock could pick out his John from a room of thousand Johns from the touch of his hands alone.

His fingers tighten, (to keep him there, holding on to him, or to control the trembling?) when John starts to pull away.

Don't go, he wants to say.

Instead he pulls him back roughly, tugs him so he falls into Sherlock again, for the hundredth embrace they share before John must inevitably leave. John understands, because he sighs, not exasperated or annoyed at Sherlock's neediness, but a sigh that breathes fondness, and love, and makes Sherlock want to curl into him and never leave. John folds him into himself again, hand curving over his neck, thumb circling the soft skin behind his ear.

"Hey," he says softly. "Hey? Sherlock."

The last call for John's flight echoes through the airport, a hateful, awful sound that Sherlock could _murder_ if it was a person. Or he could murder the person making the announcement. Maybe John's flight will get delayed. Or cancelled? And John will never, ever have to leave him again.

This might be a Bit Not Good. Murdering innocent people to tether John to himself; clearly psychopathic behaviour. Then again; is it really psychopathic if it's someone you love more than anything else in the world?

"Your absence," Sherlock finally mumbles into his neck, "Is terribly inconvenient to me."

"Yeah, I can imagine. Who's going to take notes for you? Or make you tea? Or _wash your pants_ ?" John's mouth brushes over the shell of his ear; breath ghosts over the hair and tickles his skin. Sherlock holds him tighter, gives an enormous squeeze around John's ribs, before he finally, _finally,_ releases him. John's hand immediately curls around his wrist, he lifts his hand and presses a kiss to his palm, eyes meeting his.

"You going to be good for me?" he asks, teasing. Always teasing. Sherlock loves him and hates him for it in equal measure. Normally John is the one who wears his heart on his sleeve; feelings open on his face, his words honest and genuine and true. Sherlock is the one who makes a habit of hiding everything from everyone, even John, sometimes. But now he feels flayed open and exposed, his chest cracked open and his heart, bloody and beating, bared for everyone to see. It's awfully difficult to control his emotions right now. It's all he can do from melting to a puddle on the floor and curling his body around John's shins, begging and pleading for him to stay.

"I'll try not to set fire to the flat until you come back," he reassures him, and John's answering smile is radiant.

"Very considerate of you," he says, and then kisses each of his knuckles, one by one. It's a silly, childish habit that John has. Right before he leaves, the four kisses, right along his skin, leaving a burning trail. It's...it's...so stupid. So sappy and sentimental and _..._ and yet Sherlock feels his heart squeeze at the feeling.

"Right. You have to go now,” he says abruptly, clearing his throat. Sherlock pulls his hand away, pins it to his side, clears his throat. Tries not to meet John's gaze.

"I'll be back before you know it," John promises, and Sherlock wants to resist the temptation to snort. Before he knows it? Hardly. Sherlock feels every moment of John's absence like a phantom pain in his body. Always, unendingly present. Easy to forget sometimes because he's so used to talking to the man, except when the silence of the flat presses down on him because there's no John humming _The Beatles_ from the kitchen.

And then he leaves, and Sherlock watches him leave as the familiar pain settles itself into the hollow of his stomach. The same, gaping holes in his body, the raw scar in his heart opens again and Sherlock thinks he might be being a tad over dramatic; but this must be what Plato had spoken about. It is difficult to find your own axis when there's no planet to revolve around.

_Love is the name for the desire and pursuit of wholeness._

 

***

Sherlock is _furious._ Someone from the yard has  handled the evidence inexpertly and mucked up the crime scene and now the entire case is compromised. He snarls and snaps at the officer, practically foaming at the mouth. And suddenly Sherlock is so angry he can't think _straight_ , and perhaps, in hindsight, the man hadn't deserved quite the verbal evisceration Sherlock had bestowed upon him. Yet there he is, bemoaning his lack of education, his less-than-stellar ability to keep a girlfriend for more than a week, his prescription drug addiction, and the frankly awful cologne he's wearing-

Someone clasps their hand over his shoulder and Sherlock hisses, whipping his head around to cut whoever it is to ribbons, and is met with Greg's tired brown eyes.

"My office. Now," he says, and before Sherlock can refuse, tightens his grip and uses his shoulder as a kind of steering wheel to turn him away from the gaggle of officers and towards his office. Someone stifles a laugh behind them, someone calls him a 'cunt'. If John had been here he would have punched them in the face. The thought makes him all too aware of the emptiness in his chest.

Sherlock's hands are shaking and his upper lip is beaded with sweat, and he feels like he's run a mile. It's almost a relief to be bodily pushed into Lestrade's cool office, with the familiar, reassuring smell of old files and stale coffee, the framed picture of Greg and Mycroft on his desk. It’s an old picture, Christmas back when Sherlock and John had still been in uni, and Mycroft had invited them to his flat in Tottenham for dinner. They smile at him lazily from the photo, Greg’s arm thrown around his shoulder, Mycroft’s tapered fingers curved around the stem of a wine glass. He can see a sliver of blonde hair behind him, John hastily moving out of the frame so that Sherlock could click it.

Lestrade pulls out a chair for him and pushes him down into it, and then pours him a cup from the thermos on his desk.

"Don't want it," Sherlock snaps, ducking his head.

"It has extra sugar," Lestrade tries to convince him, pushing the little steel cup further towards him. Sherlock sighs, as if he’s doing Greg a favour (even though tea sounds absolutely _lovely_ at the moment) and wraps his fingers around it. It's still hot, and when he drinks it, it does make him feel a little better.

"John's back on deployment then?" Lestrade asks, settling down into his chair. It has wheels on it and groans a little under his weight. Sherlock lifts his gaze to look at him, expecting pity, but he only sees Lestrade's old paternal concern. He's more of a father than his own, anyway. Not that he would ever tell him.

"Last week," he finally answers, and sets the cup down. Lestrade nods, and then, opens a drawer on his desk and extracts a glass bottle. Sets it on the desk with a satisfied sigh.

"Alcohol," Sherlock observes dully. "Doesn't help much. I've already gotten over one addiction, it wouldn't do me any favours to take another one upon myself."

"Moderation," Lestrade points out with a wiggle of his eyebrows, and pours them both a shot. His into his empty steel cup, his own into his coffee mug. They clink their unusual glasses together, and drink.

***

He presses John's old jumper to his nose, inhales the scent of his shampoo and detergent. It's starting to fade a bit, but not quite. He can still imagine being pushed down on the bed, pinned down by the weight of a smaller, compact body. Sherlock shoves his fingers deeper into himself, moaning into the wool. His fingers are long enough to reach his own prostate, making masturbation far more satisfactory. He can imagine it's John's fingers inside of him, pumping in an out, while John whispers sentimental rot into his ear. John quite likes his fingers; on the rare occasions Sherlock feels like topping, he can reduce John to a babbling, begging mess in minutes; slick and hot and ready for him to push into.

Right now though, all he wants is John inside of him. He can feel the ghost of his mouth on his neck, dexterous fingers pulling him and squeezing him, kneading his arse. Sherlock crooks his fingers and grits his teeth, getting a mouthful of wool in the process. One, two, three twists and he's coming, rutting against the pillow he placed under his lips, John's name muffled against his old jumper.

"Oh god, Oh god, _John..._ "

***

Sometimes there are terrifying, frightening, _awful_ moments.

"What else? Keep talking to me. Tell me about another case."

Sherlock smiles, wiggling his toes into the sofa. "I've told you _all_ of them. You don't want to hear about the boring ones."

"Nothing you talk about can be boring. I mean, not unless you start talking about ash again..."

"My knowledge of tobacco ash is what solved that case with the dog," Sherlock sniffs.

"Your obsession with dogs solved the case with the dog,” John corrects him, around a laugh. "We should get a-"

And then suddenly there is static, John's voice cutting through the sound in sporadic bursts. Nothing concrete, no way of stringing them into a coherent sentence. Someone shouting, then _lots_ of people shouting- and then- silence.

Sherlock sits like that for almost an hour, mobile pressed to the side of his face, waiting, waiting, his heart thundering under his ribs and his blood frozen solid. He can't find the will to move. Every few minutes he checks his phone, to see if John had called and he'd missed it. Nothing happens. All he's met with is silence and his own blood rushing in his ears. The tears flow, hot and treacherous, down his face. Angrily, he wipes them. It's probably nothing. It _must_ be nothing, and John _must_ be fine, because Sherlock can't consider any other possibility.

Ms Hudson finds him later, curled up on the sofa, hugging the Union Jack to his chest. Crying. It's embarrassing and childish and he _hates_ it, but when she coos over him and strokes his hair and lets him put his head on her lap he can't bring himself to push her away. "It's alright, love, he's fine, he's _fine,_ " she keeps saying, over and over again, and maybe, like Sherlock, even she believes that saying it the right number of times will make it true.

When John calls again, two days later, Sherlock can barely get a word in because he's sobbing into the receiver.

"I- I thought-" he keeps starting, never able to finish the sentence, throat burning, everything folding inside of him, his entire body shaking with relief.

"I know, I know," John reassures him. "It's alright. I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. Just a bit of gunshots. It's okay."

Sherlock _knows_ he's fine, but he could never explain to John the white hot panic clawing at his sides, the threatening darkness, his hands itching to find something that would take the fear away. He can't explain that even with his razor sharp intellect and cool logic all Sherlock could see was John's bloodstained corpse, bright blue eyes cold and unseeing.

***

And when he comes back, _oh._

John. Clever, wonderful, unassuming John with his jumpers and his rough hands and his _mouth,_ he finds all the aching, raw holes and stitches them together. Sherlock, a body stretched out on an operating table, brought alive again by John's touch. John always grabs him by the scruff of the neck and pulls him out, always somehow manages to put him back together and Sherlock couldn't find a name for what they were if you put a gun to his head.

***

But even John comes back a little more damaged each time, his eyes harder, the line of his jaw more tense, his fingers holding on to Sherlock with more force than required, as though he feels like Sherlock could just slip away so easily. Sherlock has seen so many dead bodies, sometimes mangled ones, but always, always people he couldn't care less about. John had seen his friends being blown to bits in front of him, and perhaps, Sherlock isn't the only who sometimes imagines the love of his life as a corpse.

***

Sherlock's eyes flutter open.

The room is sheathed in darkness, only a sliver of pale moonlight escaping through the gap in the curtains. Sherlock frowns, blinks a few times for his eyes to adjust to the absence of light, wondering what woke him up, until there’s a nudge at his leg and he turns to John.

John’s hairline, damp with sweat, eyes moving feverishly beneath his lids. Sherlock gapes, not knowing what to do. His fingers are twitching, arms suddenly swiping up as if to grab something, fingers clenching around empty air before dropping to the mattress. Sherlock swallows, reaching out to touch his face before withdrawing. John’s nightmares so far had been quiet- sometimes they’d managed to wake Sherlock up but John always pulled himself together before Sherlock could be too concerned.

Now, though, it frightens Sherlock- just a little bit. Not because of _John_ , but because he’s seeing something that Sherlock can’t see and if there’s something Sherlock hates more than anything, it is a hidden enemy.

Suddenly John shouts something in a language Sherlock doesn’t understand, but it must be Pashto or some such- John can’t speak fluently but he’s cobbled together a few functional sentences- _Don’t shoot! I’m a doctor!_ or- _I’m here to help._ But it doesn’t sound like either of those things- it is harsh and guttural and John sounds defensive- scared.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, sitting up and twisting his body towards John. He gently shakes a damp shoulder. “John, wake up. You’re have a bad dream. You’re here, in London, in Baker Street, with me.”

John’s eyes fly open, and before Sherlock can smile and rest a hand against his face, John is flying at him- hands curling over his shoulders, pushing him back, hard against the mattress until he has Sherlock pinned under him.

“John?” Sherlock asks, tentative, his name coming out in a breathless query. John’s eyes are cold, unseeing. John is still somewhere Sherlock cannot reach. Who is he looking at, right now? Sherlock tries to lift a hand to touch him again- perhaps John will feel reassured by his touch?- but before he can John clasps his slender wrist between his fingers and tamps it down on the bed. John’s body is hot and damp with sweat and heavy and Sherlock feels trapped, and not in an entirely good way.

“John,” He says again, louder this time, “ _John_ ,” insistent.

And then- _then-_ finally, the cold fire from his eyes dies down, and he blinks. Once, twice. “Sherlock?”

“You were having a bad dream,” Sherlock tells him, raising a hand slowly to brush his knuckles against John’s cheekbone. John stares at him, uncomprehending. “It’s fine. You’re fine. You’re safe here, John. I’m here. To protect you. As if anything could happen to you with me here.”

John gapes, shaking his head. It starts off as a minute shake and then it becomes a bit more vigorous. “No, no, no, _no-_ ” he repeats, and he pushes off Sherlock, and and then he’s off the bed, and before Sherlock can catch him he’s locked himself in the loo.

Sherlock sits up, runs a hand through his hair, sighing. Of _course_ John was going to consume himself with guilt over this. How could John not understand that it was _fine?_ Sherlock was hardly incapable of holding himself in a fight- he could box _and_ he had a Black Belt in Judo, for Christ’s sake! Even if John- dream John, that is, had wanted to harm him, Sherlock could have fought him off. John was a formidable opponent, of course, but it wouldn’t have been impossible. There was nothing for John to be worried about.

Yet John’s concern for Sherlock’s well being overshadowed all of his other considerations.

Sherlock climbed off the bed and made his way to the loo, and rapped a fist against the wood.  
“John, open the door.”

The shower’s on. Taking a bath? Now? The water’s not even hot. Worrying a bit now, Sherlock knocks again. “John, open the door. Right now.” And then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

Seconds pass and there’s no response. Sherlock weighs the pros and cons of breaking down the door. John would be tedious about it the next morning, would complain about their lack of finances and the mental trauma of having to simply _call a bloody carpenter and get a new door made,_ so he decides against it. Instead he fishes out a hairpin from the pocket of his dressing gown thrown over his desk chair, and quickly picks the lock. He hadn’t realised that his concern for John would actually make his hands shake.

It didn’t matter. John didn’t need a clucking mother hen. He needed Sherlock. A few more determined twists and the door clicks open. Sherlock discards the pin and pushes at the door, and finds John in the shower.

Fully clothed. Getting drenched by the freezing water. Knees drawn up to his chest, eyes staring at something on the opposite wall, unseeing.

Sherlock immediately turns the shower off.

“John. John. What are you doing. Get up.”

John doesn’t even look at him. He shakes his head, slowly. “I- We should start sleeping in separate rooms,” he says. His voice is surprisingly steady. As though he’s giving orders to a team.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffs, and then climbs into the tub. Sits down opposite John- a position they’ve been in several times before- but in rather different circumstances.

His line of vision interrupted by Sherlock’s form, John has no choice but to look at him. “I’m not being ridiculous. I almost hurt you. I might have, already. Did I?”

“I’m not made of bone china,” Sherlock says softly, and his hands find John’s, clasped over his knees. He twists their fingers together, John’s tanned skin against his own paleness. John takes a heavy breath, and his hands tighten against Sherlock’s. He ducks his head and his grip tightens, almost as though he is trying to ground himself.

“John. John. Listen to me,” Sherlock shifts closer. His pyjamas are already sodden from the wet bathtub, he doesn’t care. John’s gaze lifts upwards to meet Sherlock’s, his bottom lip pinned by his teeth. Sherlock is so used to being the one in need of comfort, he often forgets that John is, in many ways, far more fragile than he is. “This wasn’t your fault.”

John shakes his head, disbelieving, about to counter Sherlock, but Sherlock rips his hands away and then he’s climbing into John’s lap, straddling him, cupping his hands over his ears and forcing him to look at him. John’s hands instinctively settle on his waist.

“This. Is. Not. Your. Fault,” Sherlock repeats. John looks at him, wide eyed. “You’ve had experiences and seen things that none of us can understand and it’s _changed_ you, John, but that’s okay, because our experiences change us _everyday._ ”

“I- it wasn’t you. On the bed. It was a soldier, and I wanted to- I _wanted_ to hurt him, Sherlock. I would have. Would have put my hands on your neck, and-” John shudders, eyes screwing shut. Sherlock feels ill. How does he do this? How does he make John see?

“You wouldn't have hurt me. I can _take_ it, John. I could have fought back. You know this. I’ve been in worse situations. You think I wouldn’t be able to handle you in a fight, hmm?” John rests his forehead against Sherlock, breathes deeply. Unsteadily,

“You are the most important thing to me in the world, Sherlock, and I- I never want to do that to you again.” John’s hands curl more insistently around his hips, bring him closer until there’s barely an inch between the two of them. Hot breath ghosts over Sherlock’s face, their mouths so close they could kiss. So he does. Presses his lips softly against John’s mouth, and kisses him, and kisses him, _and kisses him._ John gasps against him like a drowning man, fingers sliding up his neck and curling into his hair, one hand at his back to steady him.

“John, I trust you- I trust you,” Sherlock says breathlessly. “More than- more than anyone. You couldn’t hurt me if you _tried._ ”

He pulls away, breathing hard, and looks into John’s eyes. They’re bright, beginning to darken a bit with want, his cheeks high with colour. Sherlock slips a hand down to his shoulder, hooks a finger underneath John’s dog tags and pulls them over his head. Slips them over his own. The metal is warm against his bare skin, warmed by John’s body heat, and it makes him feel owned, and cherished. John licks his lips, curving a hand around the side of his neck, fingers twisting around the metal chain and pulling, just a bit.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quietly.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about, and even if there was, you’re forgiven,” Sherlock tells him, and brings their faces together again. John’s starting to harden against his hip, his own erection pressing against the front of his pyjamas.

“Every time you leave,” Sherlock finds himself saying, mouthing down John’s jaw, his neck, sucking a bruise behind his ear. “God, every time you leave I just- I get so _sentimental-_ ”

John’s fingers dig into his hips, push him up and against his cock. Sherlock shivers at the hardness pressing against him. “Just say you miss me,” John says around a watery chuckle, and them groaning softly when Sherlock bites an earlobe.

“Maudlin _rot,_ ” Sherlock whispers scathingly. His hands find the hem of John’s t shirt and lifts it up, up, pulls it off and throws it on the tiled floor. Mouth closing around John’s taunt neck, he sucks, bites down. John hisses, hips bucking up against him, cock right underneath Sherlock’s arse. He rolls his hips, just enough, just for the friction. “ _Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”_

“Not dead yet, so that’s a bloody awful poem to quote,” John mutters. His fingers hook into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and they both attempt to get them off together. It joins John’s now damp t shirt on the bathroom floor. Sherlock’s prick strains towards John, already hard and leaking.

“Very well,” Sherlock mutters, dragging his arse up the length of John’s still clothed erection. “Yes, I fucking miss you, Captain Watson. Happy now?”

John starts to come up with a snappy retort, but Sherlock does him one better and cups his hands around his cock, rubs him through his pyjamas. John gives up all attempts at conversation then, lets Sherlock drag them off before settling in his lap again. They kiss again, and this time John grabs him by the back of his neck and presses their mouths together like he can’t get enough of Sherlock. It’s filthy and utterly competent, just like Sherlock likes; teeth find Sherlock’s bottom lip and _press,_ tongue swipes around in his mouth, leaving Sherlock panting, open mouthed, and squirming against his cock.

“God, I want you all the time,” he stutters, and his hands flail wildly for something- anything- for lubrication. His hands close around the half-empty bottle of olive oil Sherlock sometimes uses for his hair, and which John teases him endlessly about. It falls to the floor, and John picks it up. “Easy,” he reminds him. “You okay?”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock answers. “Could be better,” he adds.

“Makes sense.” John slicks his fingers with the oil and Sherlock lifts his arse up, lets John push in a finger. Gasps, bears down, and then hides his face against John’s neck, fingers digging into John’s biceps for leverage.

John runs a hand soothingly down his back, two fingers inside of him now, pumping in and out. John usually takes his time, loves fingering Sherlock open until he’s flushed and begging underneath him, but now the preparation is quick and perfunctory. Slick fingers slip out of him and set themselves on his hips instead, and Sherlock reaches behind himself for John’s cock, slides down onto it. He winces a bit at the discomfort, and John kisses it away.

Sherlock moans, adjusting to the familiar feel of John’s sizeable cock inside of him. It’s a tight fit inside the bathtub, and his knees just barely find a nook between the porcelain and John’s waist. He leverages himself on John’s shoulders and begins to move, bearing up and down slowly, rolling his hips backward and forward. John’s fingers wrap around his wrists and slides them down, and instead weaves their fingers together. Sherlock groans, fingers clenching when John pushes up, fucking up into him. He leans forward until his forehead presses against John’s, and pins their interlaced hands to the cold wall.

John grunts underneath him, trying to catch Sherlock’s lips while he bounces on his cock. “Fuck, _fuck,_ so tight,” he growls, bones grinding under Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock’s mouth closes around his ear, sucks the shell of it into his lips. John groans, tossing his head this way and that. Then he’s ripping out of Sherlock’s grasp, because he _can,_ because John is deliciously comptent, and he’s hooking his arms underneath his waist, pushing them both backward until Sherlock’s head is leaning against the opposite rim. John hovers over him, his cock having slipped out in the process. He cradles the back of his head so the porcelain doesn’t dig into his scalp. Lifts a leg up so it’s hooked over his shoulder, and then he pushes in again, and Sherlock cries out, hands flailing to get a grip on John.

“Oh god, oh god,” he pants, heels digging into John’s back.

John kisses him some more, dirty and hot with lots of tongue, a sloppy kiss, teeth scraping down his jaw and sinking into his neck. Sherlock mewls, twining his fingers into John’s cropped hair. John stretches him tight, pushing in and out with quick, sharp thrusts. He lifts Sherlock higher up, settles him against his lap and Sherlock’s back arches at the new angle, mouth falling open in helpless pleasure when John’s cock brushes against his prostate.

One arm supports him under his hips, John pulls his fingers from underneath Sherlock’s neck and them pushes them into the wet heat of his mouth. Sherlock sucks greedily, laving and licking, and John’s mouth slides down his neck until it his breath is ghosting over a nipple. He sucks it into his mouth, teeth grazing the skin just a bit.

“Yes, John- _yes,_ god-” somehow in his attempt to throw a hand back to support himself against the tile, his fingers push against the shower knob and a half-hearted spray of cold water drips over them both.

“Oh-”

“Leave it,” John growls, and then there’s a particularly delicious _thrust_ as if he’s emphasizing why Sherlock should stop worrying about everything else and let John fuck him into oblivion. Sherlock’s legs spread wider, one falling over the edge of the tub. John leans back, pulls Sherlock’s hips roughly against him, bounces him on his lap.

“John- _John-”_

 _“_ Fuck, you’re fucking gorgeous, look at you. If you could see what I’m seeing right now.” John groans, tipping his head to the ceiling, eyes fluttering closed like being inside Sherlock is nothing short of a religious experience. “Fuck I’m gonna come.”

Sherlock fingers scrabble at his chest, clutch the rim of the bathtub so hard his knuckles turn white. Rendered incapable of speech, all that escapes his mouth are bit off groans, the ends and the beginnings of John’s name. John fills him so completely that he eclipses everything else,  until there’s nothing except his mouth, his cock, his hands. John takes Sherlock apart piece by piece like he’s the east wind, and then puts him back together just as easily.

“ _Fuck, fuck- Jeeeezus,_ ” he pants, hips going rigid. His knees slip a bit, and he half falls on top of Sherlock, shuddering. Sherlock feels him fill him up, moans at the decadent feeling of John’s ejaculate inside of him.

“Yes, yes, do it inside me,” he babbles.

John pulls out of him wetly, and then throws both Sherlock’s legs over his shoulders, slides down his body until he can bend his head and close his mouth around Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock fucking _screams._

John sucks him down to the root, licks up his shaft, swirls his tongue around the tip. Bobs his head up and down. Sherlock’s hand pats uselessly at the top of his head, hips inching into John’s mouth, almost choking him. John mouths up the side of his shaft before taking him into his mouth again. It barely takes him five more seconds until Sherlock is crying out John’s name, coming inside his mouth, heels digging into his back.

John swallows him down, cradling his hips, fingers making bruises on his skin that Sherlock will have for _days,_ that Sherlock will wear proudly like a fucking badge.

***

Afterwards, John kisses him softly, and picks him up like a bride, wraps him in a fluffy towel and kisses him some more. “I love you, _i love you,_ ” he says while he kisses him, and Sherlock feels like a damn treasure. “Never, never again. I would die before I let anything happen to you.”

Afterwards, they both sit on the sofa in the sitting room, and John makes him tea just the way he likes it. Sherlock leans his head against his shoulder and John wraps his arms around him and kisses the top of his head.

Afterwards, Sherlock will say, “I love you too,” and will hold him close, hoping he never has to let him go.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooooooo readers and friends. So this is a little parting gift for you all. I will be going on a kind of semi-hiatus for a few months. I'm taking a couple of exams for business school (YIKES!) and I'll have to let go of ao3 for a while. This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. *wipes a tear* I hope this little smutty present tides you guys over until I come back. Those of who are following AWF or awaiting the third and final installment of the Potterlock fic that has been taking me over two years to write- will have to wait a few more months for the next updates. But when I come back, you can make sure you WILL get those updates. *rubs hands*. But if you miss me, my tumblr is always free to you (the link is on my profile) and you can chat with me, leave a little prompt that you'd like to see in writing, or just badger me to get back to writing. (or even if you want to complain about season 4. i am ALWAYS up for that) I appreciate yall so much, you commenters, kudos-givers, subscribers, and lurkers, and I wouldn't ever write if it wasn't for the tiny bit of encouragement I get. So hit that kudos or leave me a comment, if you like. See you soon! :*
> 
> PS: I'm looking for a Brit Picker and a beta reader, so if you'd be interested, PM me on my tumblr. I'll get back to you when I return. The more the merrier. We can figure something out. Thanks! :D
> 
> PS2: The title is from this lovely poem by Edna Vincent St Millay, which gives me all the johnlock feelz: 
> 
> https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/song-second-april


End file.
